


Thousand Tomorrows, A

by bakedgoldfish



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e17 Red Haven's On Fire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-04-07
Updated: 2003-04-07
Packaged: 2019-05-15 04:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14783946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakedgoldfish/pseuds/bakedgoldfish
Summary: "I'm going to buy a gun and start a war/If you can tell me something worth fighting for."  Samfic.





	Thousand Tomorrows, A

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

**A Thousand Tomorrows**

**by:** Baked Goldfish 

**Category:** Sam  
**Rating:** YTEEN **Spoilers:** Specifically Red Haven's On Fire, anything up to it is fair game.  
**Disclaimer:** Sam, Josh, and Will are Sorkin's. Wesley Crusher is Paramount's. Summary is from Coldplay's A Rush Of Blood To The Head. No money being made, no copyright/trademark infringement intended, please don't sue.  
**Summary:** "I'm going to buy a gun and start a war/If you can tell me something worth fighting for." Samfic.  


Well, it wouldn't do, at any rate. 

Sam was already cotton-mouthed. It wouldn't do, he figured, because it would have pitted him against all his friends. He wouldn't have been effective in Congress, because, one, everyone would say he's just Jed Bartlet's lackey, and two, there's no saying he wouldn't actually be Jed Bartlet's lackey. So, really, it wouldn't do for him to have won the election. 

Which is exactly why he was sitting in a bar, staring into his drink the way Toby would do if Toby were still here. Because it wouldn't do, him against all of them. 

In a whiskey-clouded mind, he could imagine his would-be assistant - would she be like Ginger, or Margaret, or maybe Mrs. Landingham - he could imagine her setting up an appointment to meet with Josh. And he could imagine Josh telling him, "So we need votes for the thing," and he could imagine himself disagreeing, and Josh would say something like, "It's this or their version." And he could imagine himself saying, "I can vote against their version," and then Josh would say, "Come on Sam. This is us." Pull him right into that web. Carnal knowledge of the Executive branch trumps ideals every time. 

And Sam knew it just wouldn't work. It would all go down just the way he thought, and maybe they wouldn't think they were using him - the President would realize it, though - and maybe they wouldn't think he minded being used. But they would use, and he would mind, and it would be bitter in the end. Even if he had a smile on his face, it would be bitter. 

So Sam was glad he'd lost. He was glad his first campaign manager was a self-serving buffoon, and he was glad his second campaign manager was Toby. He was glad he had the chance now to go back to his position at the White House, where he wouldn't have to be anyone's lackey or anyone's enemy, at least not in public. 

Maybe he wasn't so glad that his cell phone was vibrating against his hip. "Sam Seaborn," he answered, sounding surprisingly sober to himself. 

"So hey," Will said. 

Sam blinked. "Hey." Will had his position. The entire speechwriting staff was gone, except for Will and some interns. This is what Sam knew, even if most of the senior staff were still rather oblivious to it. 

"Just - wanted to see how you were - you know." 

"I'm okay." 

A pause. "You sure?" 

"It was a landslide," Sam said with a shrug in his voice. "Wasn't exactly a surprise." It was surprising when he found he'd accidentally tripped into the position of candidate. That wacky Sam, he thought. That wacky Sam always getting into trouble like he was the Wesley Crusher of the White House. Well, now he was the drunk Wesley Crusher of the White House, but he didn't feel like bothering with the details. 

"When're you getting back?" Will asked; Sam thought he could hear distress in Will's voice. 

And Sam, hearing that distress, wondered if he'd ever sounded like that. Knew he had, at one point. And he knew, somewhere along the line, he'd stopped sounding like that. That sound of distress was born from idealism. Distress goes away when you become resigned, Sam figured, because when you're resigned, you stop worrying about how bad things can be because you know exactly how bad they can be. 

Will, though. Will, Sam thought with as much vitriol as he could muster at that moment. Screw Will and all his idealism. Will can be Wesley now. Sam was tired of being the bright young thing. Sam was more deserving of that vacation than Will. Sam was resigned. 

"I don't know if I'm coming back," Sam said. He knew poor Will, and knew poor Will had probably - possibly - might have been hoping for Sam to say, "Gettin' on the next flight out, cowboy!" He knew poor Will was probably having a conniption. 

"Uh, Sam?" 

"Yes?" 

"By, 'I don't know if I'm coming back,' you do mean, 'next flight out,' right?" 

"No, Will," he said softly. "I mean I don't know." He knew this probably wasn't fair for Will. Poor Will had gotten screwed by the White House speechwriting staff. 

He'd gotten screwed by the entire Democratic Party. That's all. And with that last betrayal - no, it wasn't a betrayal. Betrayals are deliberate, a tiny voice in the back of his head told him. There's intent. This was more of a dismissal. Orange County Democrats weren't worth betrayal. Orange County Democrats were dismissed, off-handedly ignored. That's what they were worth. That's what he was worth, apparently. 

Well, at any rate, with that last dismissal, he'd felt the wall come tumbling down. That last little piece of rice-paper between his idealism and his cynicism burned away, leaving carbon-smoke stench in the back of his throat. 

Tomorrow, he thought, clicking his phone shut before Will could recover enough to talk. Tomorrow, there would be healing. Tomorrow, he would wake up in the early morning, take a run on the beach, feel the sand give way under his feet the way it had been giving way for the past four years, except this time he wouldn't fall. Tomorrow, he'd find his footing again, and after the sun rose, he would get a ticket and start packing his things and head out. 

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. He knew there would be hundreds of tomorrows, each one never being fully realized. A thousand tomorrows, maybe. A thousand tomorrows before he would thing of heading back to Washington, before he would think of becoming someone's enemy again. Through the haze of whiskey, through the haze of misery, through the haze of having prostituted himself, he knew this much. A thousand tomorrows, maybe more. 

Tonight, he shot back the last little drop of whiskey that was left in his glass, and absently wondered if poor Will Bailey would ever really be the guy who could fight for the penny. 

-end- 


End file.
